


As Propriety Demands

by MayhemCirheryn



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Curse of the Black Pearl AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemCirheryn/pseuds/MayhemCirheryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Settling oneself to a new social circle is difficult enough when one is only going to London for the season, but when it is halfway around the world and when one is hopelessly bookish, well...that is quite frightful.</p><p>Rebecca Clarke is fast becoming every mother's nightmare: a spinster. When even her generous dowry and a move to the Caribbean colonies fail to attract suitors, she decides to take matters into her own hands and seek employ as a governess (much to Mother's dismay). A woman need not be a burden to her father if she has wit and the will to use it. But the social situation in Port Royal is all in an uproar and the most eligible man in town is beginning to wish he had sailed through that storm after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tale of Two Sisters

_Propriety: The quality or_ _state_ _of_ _being_ _proper_ _; suitableness to an acknowledged or correct_ _standard_ _or_ _rule_ _; consonance with established_ _principles_ _, rules, or customs;_ _fitness_ _; appropriateness; as, propriety of_ _behavior_ _,_ _language_ _,_ _manners_ _, etc. "The rule of propriety."_

* * *

 

It is a strange fact that the smallest and simplest of things often precipitate the greatest chaos. It was amusing and quite fascinating that something as commonplace as a bit of paper could cause such histrionic excitement. Of course, were one to consider the purpose of this particular piece of paper, the gleefully agitated atmosphere that had reigned over the Clarke household for the past fortnight was at once easily explained—fortunately, it was just as easily dealt with.

“Becca! Becca! Becca, whatever are you doing, this is no time for literature!”

With a mild blink as she took her gaze from the pages of her book, Rebecca minutely adjusted her spectacles and spared a glance at her younger sister.

“It is always time for literature, Marianne,” she said.

Marianne glared, her pink, heart-shaped mouth set in a determined scowl. “Nonsense, Becca!” she exclaimed. “You cannot be prepared already!”

There was a silence while the sisters regarded each other; certainly Rebecca’s expression suggested that yes, she could be prepared already, and she was, thank you.

“But Becca! Why _that_ dress?” Marianne asked once this fact had dawned on her.

Rebecca ran a hand over the skirt of her pale blue dress; it may not be new, but it was her favorite and the one that came closest to flattering her far-less-than-ample bosom. “I find no fault with it,” she replied, returning to her book.

Marianne plunged on, undaunted. “And your hair—”

“Needs God’s help, my dear, not yours,” Rebecca interjected, turning a page, the very picture of tranquility. “Besides, who on earth is going to look at me when you are present?”

She cast an amused eye at Marianne, resplendent in a cream-colored dress that so wonderfully emphasized her smooth, auburn hair and guileless, brown eyes. Nineteen and beautiful with a substantial dowry, her sister was perfect marriage material.

“Don’t be like that,” Marianne scolded gently, joining her on the chaise. She took her hand and spoke in a giddy voice that was almost a giggle. “There are sure to be Navy men present; Lieutenants and Captains and even the Commodore, or so I’ve heard!”

“Him as well? Poor man,” Rebecca said. “I’m certain he would rather not attend. Granted, I’ve never seen him, but what Miss Elizabeth sees in a blacksmith I’ll never know!”

“Oh, Becca, didn’t you listen at all? He rescued her from _pirates_! And she loves him!”

“Be that as it may, to humiliate the Commodore publicly—in front of his men, no less!—was a terribly crass thing to do.”

“For all the books you read, Becca, you have no sense of romance! Mr. Turner hastened to her rescue _the very next morning_ , and I hear he fought those barbarians single-handed!”

“Marianne, please. I’ve heard this story often enough; it was the talk of the town when we arrived, if you recall, and we are sure to hear it retold tonight.”

Marianne fell silent, and Rebecca turned another page. For all that her sister was lovely and kind, she was flighty and apt to accept the exaggerations of gossip with childlike belief. Not that Rebecca didn’t hearken to gossip—quite the contrary; gossip, however extreme and scathing, was based on at least a grain of truth, but some of the rumors surrounding Miss Swann’s engagement to the blacksmith, Will Turner, were too far-fetched for even that. Undead pirates, for instance? Utter nonsense.

“Still,” Marianne continued. “Navy men! I’m sure there’s a Lieutenant who’ll take a fancy to you.”

Rebecca snapped her book shut. “We’ve been through this, Marianne,” she said softly. It was all she needed to say.

“Come along, then,” Marianne said, standing. “Mother and Father are waiting, and you know how Mother gets when she believes we are late.”

She swept from the room in a rustle of heavy skirts, and Rebecca stood. Slowly, she crossed her chamber and set her book, Shakespeare’s _The Merchant of Venice_ , on her armoire, trailing a loving hand over the cover. In spite of herself, she paused for a moment, examining her reflection. Wild brown hair twisted into a semblance of style, a long nose, no bosom to speak of, spectacles…a far cry from Marianne. But she had no use for her sister’s beauty. Turning from the mirror, Rebecca left her room and descended the stairs to join her family.

Miss Elizabeth Swann’s engagement celebration awaited.


	2. The Talk of the Town

There are moments in every man’s life when all sense of bravado abandons him and he wishes profoundly for a chasm to open beneath his feet and for the earth to swallow him up and hide him from pitying, inquisitive eyes—for Commodore James Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy himself, this was one such moment.

He stood near the wall, mouth set in a hard line, grim and commanding in full ceremonial dress, observing the festivities with what seemed an arrogant detachment. However, had one looked but a bit closer, one would have noted how tightly his jaw was clenched, how tense his posture, how his clear, green eyes flickered often toward a fair, slender creature in cream and lace who clung, laughing, to the arm of a fresh-faced young man. As it was, no one dared look closer.

“Tell me, Groves. Why I am here?” he said to the Lieutenant beside him, dejection tinged with annoyance apparent in his tone.

“Because propriety demands it,” Theodore Groves answered, and his words had the tired feel of being often repeated.

“Propriety can go hang itself,” James glowered.

Theo arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should let the wine alone for the rest of the evening, sir.”

“I am _not_ drunk, Lieutenant,” James retorted with a glare that could have frozen fire.

“Really? Because condemning propriety doesn’t quite seem like a sober thought for you, James.”

James started at the sound of his Christian name, something so few people dared to utter that he expected he would soon forget it.

“No,” he said, turning to study the guests once more. “It doesn’t.”

It was loud in the Governor’s ballroom, a sheer, merry cacophony of violins, the rumble of pleasant conversation and the trilling chatter of young ladies. Petticoats swirled in the candlelight in a dizzy display of color, blurred by a haze of explosive excitement and the heady scents of the Caribbean night. Yet through all the cheerful furor, there was _her_ , moving through the commotion with the delicate grace of an angel. She was beauty personified, his Aphrodite—so devoutly desired and yet unattainable. It cost him to watch her so, but he was powerless to prevent it; she drew his eye like the pole drew the needle of a compass. Inexorable.

Aching, he watched as Elizabeth pressed her smiling, sensuous lips to the Turner boy’s cheek, and jealousy writhed in his gut, clawing at him, begging to be violently released on the blacksmith’s apprentice. The room was suddenly stifling, and the press of noise and people pounded against his head. Without so much as a word to Groves, he turned and strode purposefully toward the garden doors.

Once he was outside on the veranda, James stood with his hands on the stone rail, head bowed, just as he would at sea when he believed his men weren’t watching. This party—he had dreaded it for weeks. When he had returned to Port Royal after his fruitless pursuit of Jack Sparrow, he had hoped, truly hoped, that the engagement celebration had occurred while he was at sea. But no, for Elizabeth, dear, kind, treacherous Elizabeth, had waited expressly for his return; his invitation had said as much. He had been stunned; was she really so naïve that she did not realize the pain and humiliation she had caused him? Yet propriety demanded that he attend, and so attend he did. Here he was, gritting his teeth and watching his erstwhile fiancée cavort with a common laborer who was barely more than a boy. It was twisting the knife, salt on an open wound, an affirmation of his utter failure.

James laughed, a dry, choking laugh. His mind was running on a bitter, melancholy track; Groves was right—he’d better leave the wine alone for the remainder of the night.

“Oh!”

He started at the sudden exclamation and whirled around. A young lady in a pale blue dress stood silhouetted against the glow of the ballroom. She stood utterly still, hardly breathing, it seemed, one hand pressed against her chest in a gesture of surprise, the other clutching a closed, white fan. For a brief time all was quiet; then the breathless moment passed and the young woman curtsied, spectacles glinting in the pale light.

 


	3. Parry and Riposte

“Oh!”

Rebecca jumped as the man on the veranda spun to face her. There was a pause, a suspended sort of moment while they regarded each other. He was a tall man, dressed in the immaculate white and blue of the Royal Navy, but it was not just the sumptuous amount of brocade adorning his coat that disclosed his rank. There was a sense of command about him—an inherent authority that demanded unwavering loyalty and swift obedience. Perhaps it was the manner in which he held his shoulders, or the strict set of his mouth, or the way his dark brows drew together ever so slightly over eyes that seemed strangely vulnerable. In the space of a heartbeat, the moment passed, and Rebecca dipped into a respectful curtsy.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, eyes downcast and hands folded. “I did not intend to disturb you. I merely stepped out to take the air, and was startled by your presence.”

“You needn’t apologize,” the man replied. He had a pleasant voice; a smooth baritone with a peculiar, biting edge to it. He looked at her quizzically for a moment. “I beg your pardon, but I do not believe we have been introduced, Miss…?”

“Clarke. Rebecca Clarke.”

“Well, then Miss Clarke, you’ve as much right to the air as I.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rebecca said with a small smile. “Would I be correct in assuming that I have the honor of addressing Commodore Norrington?”

“You would,” he said with a curt nod.

Rebecca couldn’t help but feel a sense of disbelieving discovery. _This_ was the man Elizabeth Swann had rejected? The girl had not seemed so foolish when she had introduced herself. In fact, Rebecca had found her to be quite pleasant company, but an amiable countenance clearly did not equate with common sense. And to be so insensitive as to request that her spurned suitor attend her _engagement_ celebration! It spoke well of Norrington that he had attended.

“I am glad to have made your acquaintance, sir,” she remarked earnestly. “My family is but newly come to Port Royal, and I have heard such favorable report of you.”

The Commodore had been standing in a strangely relaxed manner, half leaning on the rail of the veranda, but at her words he straightened, jumping to attention as if the Lord High Admiral himself were present.

“Indeed,” he said, his expression stormy, and Rebecca realized her error. It was true, she had heard a great deal of praise for him and his relentless vendetta against piracy, but it was clear he had assumed she was referencing the debacle of his recently botched engagement. She frowned and bit her lower lip in consternation; it was a faux-pas of speech she had no excuse for making.

“Tell me, Miss Clarke,” Norrington said suddenly with the air of someone interested purely for the sake of distraction. “What brings you out to take the air when there is so much entertainment to be had?” He gestured to the boisterous revelry in the room behind her.

“I could ask the same of you, Commodore,” Rebecca said with a demure smile, stepping away from the golden glow of the ballroom and moving further onto the veranda. “I confess I do not derive much pleasure from this sort of thing, yet I concede for the sake of my family. And you, sir? What is your reasoning?”

She glanced up at Norrington and was surprised at the open melancholy in his eyes and the bitter smirk that twisted his lips.

“You need to ask?” he inquired, the acerbic timbre of his voice more pronounced now than before. It was a very forwardly phrased question, and moderately accusatory, but Rebecca was not one to take offense at every possible slight.

“That is the nature of conversation, is it not?” she replied archly, dipping her head and regarding him over the top of her spectacles.

Norrington studied her face for a moment, frowning, then he sighed and turned to face the ballroom, sliding back into his indolent stance.

“I am seeking refuge, Miss Clarke,” he said. “And not only for the apparent reason. Ever since my return I have been hounded by every eligible lady in town and her over-bearing mother seeking to have me properly married off. I might as well be a horse on the auction block!”

The sheer informality of his words and manner was unsettling, but Rebecca found herself laughing.

“Is it so disagreeable to you to have the women of Port Royal fairly begging at your feet?”

“Yes, at present,” he answered with a scowl. “I find the whole atmosphere distasteful.”

“I heartily agree, Commodore,” Rebecca said.

“You take no interest in this?” Norrington inquired, indicating the general ambience with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“For a young lady the purpose of _this_ ,” Rebecca replied, copying his gesture. “Is to secure a husband. What need does a governess have of such an affair?”

“You are a governess?”

“Not currently, though it is my intent. I’ve yet to find a position.”

Norrington looked at her, his brow furrowed in mild confusion. “If it is not indecorous to ask, Miss Clarke…how old are you?”

Much to her chagrin, Rebecca felt a faint blush tinge her cheeks. “I am old enough not to harbor delusions and false hopes, Commodore.”

“But…you have had suitors?”

She paused. The subject of suitors—or rather, her distinct lack-thereof—was an accepted fact that, in her opinion, needed no discussion. Norrington averted his eyes, sensing her reticence.

“My apologies, Miss Clarke,” he said, standing straighter and clasping his hands behind his back. “I did not mean to be so forward with you. This night has been...trying, and I fear I have allowed myself somewhat of an overindulgence.”

Rebecca allowed herself a small smile; she’d suspected as much. From what she’d heard of his character, he was one to adhere to the strictest sense of propriety, and he was being rather free, at present. Though if this minor tipsiness was an overindulgence to him, he was a strict man indeed! She was fleetingly put in mind of _Othello_ ’s Cassio…which gave her an idea.

“Oh, but I _have_ had suitors,” she said, the beginnings of a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I still do, in fact. My current hopeful happens to be a dashing Italian merchant by the name of Antonio. He is, regretfully, caught up in a spot of trouble with a Jewish usurer…perhaps you’ve heard? It’s quite the scandal.”

Rebecca schooled her features into an appearance of sincerity, while she watched Norrington’s expression run the gamut from astonishment to outrage, then to discernment. For a mere second, a scant blink of the eye, he smiled. Not a sarcastic smirk, but a true smile that, although still sad, was untainted by bitterness.

“You enjoy Shakespeare?” he asked.

“Yes, very much,” Rebecca replied, unable to keep the fondness from her voice. “Do you, Commodore?”

“I’m partial to the tragedies; _Macbeth_ in particular,” Norrington answered. “And you, Miss Clarke? You must have a favorite.”

“ _Twelfth Night_ ,” Rebecca said and reluctantly looked back towards the vociferous celebration in the ballroom. She was uncertain of how much time had passed since she stepped out onto the veranda, but the very fact that she didn’t know told her that it had been too long. “I’d best return to the festivities; I wouldn’t want to be missed, and when Marianne misses me, her imagination tends to run rampant.”

“Of course,” Norrington said, melancholy slipping into his manner once more. “It was a pleasure to have met you, Miss Clarke.”

Rebecca curtsied. “Until we meet again, Commodore,” she said, and stepped back into the world of swirling skirts and giddy gold.


	4. Letters of Misfortune

If life were far simpler than it is, and this a far simpler story, it could be said that after the pointed conversation he shared with Miss Rebecca Clarke, James was instantaneously cured of his heartache. Alas, for life is not simple, this is not a simple story, and this was not the case. In a desperate attempt to eradicate all thoughts of Elizabeth and her rapidly approaching wedding, he buried himself in his duties with an increased fervor that tripped unsteadily along the threshold of obsession. For this was the way in which James Norrington dealt with emotional upheaval, and to those few who knew him better than he realized, it was about as obvious as Jack Sparrow in the House of Lords. However, these privileged few were also aware of James’ rather volatile tendencies when in such moods. Therefore, it was with a sensible amount of trepidation that Theodore Groves and Andrew Gillette invited their superior officer to Andrew’s house for drinks, and were just as sensibly surprised when he accepted.

“And that, I believe, is checkmate,” James said, placing his piece with a flourish and leaning back in his chair.

Andrew studied the board with frantic intensity for a good two minutes before he relented and threw up his hands with an aggravated sigh.

“One of these days, James,” he said, ignoring Theo’s laughter. “One of these days, I _will_ beat you at this!”

“Impossible,” James scoffed good-naturedly. “I’ve been undefeated in chess since the age of seventeen.”

“Half a minute, now!” Theo exclaimed. “That’s not true. _I’ve_ beaten you!”

“Indeed?” James said, smirking at his friend over the rim of his glass. “I don’t recall.”

“It was the night of your promotion to captain! We were sitting right here in this very room, and—”

James shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry, Theo, but I have no memory of any such moment.” He grinned. “And if I can’t remember it, it hardly counts.” He quaffed off his remaining brandy and reached for the decanter to pour himself another. “Now, gentlemen,” he said. “I propose we now turn our conversation to the real reason you invited me here.”

His lieutenants exchanged the barest of glances before Andrew spoke.

“Chess and brandy, James?” he answered haltingly.

James shook his head. He’d had his suspicions about the true purpose of this outing since his friends had extended the invitation. He didn’t relish the questioning that was most surely coming, but he had been secretly glad for a diversion that wasn’t stacks of paperwork.

“No, Andrew,” he said. “There is an alternate purpose to this, and as I’m fairly certain I know what that purpose is, I would appreciate if you would begin.”

“Clearly, you suspect us of some nefarious objective,” Theo replied. “And if you consider a plot to abduct you from the fort for a few hours nefarious, you would be correct.”

“Abduct me from the fort?” James asked, wryly amused by Theo’s choice of words.

“That’s about what it amounts to,” Andrew said. “You spend far too much time there.”

James frowned. “I have a great deal of work—”

“Work that _we_ should be doing,” Theo interrupted. “You have subordinates for a reason, James, and you’ve not let either of us so much as seal an envelope. To be quite plain, we’re concerned for your well-being.”

“You have no cause to be.”

“Oh, we haven’t?” Andrew quipped. “I happen to have it from the best authority that you haven’t been home in over a week. When was the last time you slept properly?”

It was a simple question, but it gave him a pause, and James was startled to find that he had to search his memory for an answer. It was true, he hadn’t been home in over a week and he hadn’t been sleeping much lately. What could he say? That he avoided his house because he just couldn’t stomach the lifeless solitude of the place anymore? That he feared what he would do if left alone with nothing to occupy his thoughts? He stood up, agitated, tapping his fingers against his glass.

“I have accommodations adjoining my office, you know,” he said, not bothering to mask his irritation. “I sleep there.”

“For how long?” Andrew pressed.

“Damn and blast, Andrew, you’re not my mother! What difference do my sleeping habits make to you?” James snapped, his tone a mixture of ire and _that voice_ —the one he gave orders in, that demanded deference. But his Lieutenants were unruffled by it and he was met only with stoic stares.

“Answer the question, James,” Theo said, his face impassive.

James stared down into his brandy, sighing resignedly. “Two or three hours,” he mumbled at last.

“Good God, a man can’t function on that little rest!” Andrew exclaimed.

“And yet, as you see, I am functioning just fine,” James shot back, willing his friends to believe it, despite the obvious falsehood. He was not functioning fine at all, and he knew it. Again, the desire to just disappear washed over him.

“You were never any good at lying,” Theo said with a slight smile. “With as long as we’ve known you, do you honestly think we don’t know when something’s off?”

James glared at the floor. “Nothing’s _off_ with me,” he snarled.

“Is it _wrong_ that we’re worried?” Andrew wondered aloud, frustration apparent in his tone.

“You shouldn’t be,” James said, turning to the window and gazing out at the rapidly darkening world without really seeing it.

“But we are. You have to admit you haven’t been yourself lately,” Theo pressed. “Look, we know—”

But what exactly Theo knew, James never found out, for at that moment there was a sharp, urgent pounding on the door.

“Who the devil could that be?” Andrew wondered, rising from his chair to go to the door. The knocking continued, constant and frenetic.

James let out the breath he had been holding, feeling the tension release from his shoulders like a wave rushing back to sea. He had a fairly good idea of what Theo had been about to mention, and was thoroughly glad the sudden disturbance had prevented it. He had no desire to mull over his romantic failure.

“All right, boy, all right! He’s just in here, calm yourself!” came Andrew’s voice from the hall.

James set down his glass, glancing at Theo just as a spindly boy—a cabin boy by the look of him—in rather unkempt clothes came darting into the room, an envelope clutched tightly in his grubby hands. His sandy hair was tousled every which way and he had clearly been running, and frantically too.

“Captain says ‘m s’posed ta give this ta th’ Commodore an’ ‘m s’posed ta do it right sharpish ‘cause it’s a real important an’ urgent-like message!” the boy yammered, standing on his toes, waving the envelope above his head.

As soon as he heard the words “urgent message”, James’ shoulders straightened and his eyes hardened, his face becoming an impassive mask; his brief respite from duty was over.

“Stop flapping about like a gull and give me my message, lad,” he commanded. He didn’t bark the order as he would have with any of his midshipmen or marines, but the boy still froze, shamefaced. He handed over the letter, and as soon as James had taken hold of it, the boy scurried away as quickly as he’d come.

“Twitchy little fellow, that,” Theo remarked. “I think you scared him half out of his mind, James.”

“Indeed,” James replied absentmindedly as he broke the seal on the envelope. It wasn’t a seal he recognized, nor, he saw when he unfolded the parchment, was he familiar with the hand.

_To Commodore James Norrington, RN; Regards._

_It is my most regretful duty to inform you that two days past, on 23 March, your brother, Robert, who had long struggled with repeated illness, was taken with fever and died late that night. To you, I extend my sincere condolences._

_As you are no doubt aware, the late Mr. Norrington had been a widower these six years. As I was both his friend and consultant in life, it has fallen to me to oversee the distribution of his estate and to be certain this is done so in accordance with his written will. What takes precedence in my mind, however, is not the fate his properties, but rather that of his children. His will states, quite clearly, that if death were to befall him while his children were still dependent upon him for care and shelter, that the guardianship of his daughter, Hannah, and son, Lucas, was to fall, without question, to you._

_Therefore, I shall depart for Port Royal with the children one week hence from this day, 25 March, to personally deliver them to your care. We shall be aboard the merchant vessel 'Intrepid'.  
_

_Your servant._

_Mr. Geoffrey McCormick_

James blinked and read the letter once more. Robert, dead? His throat felt as though he had swallowed sand. Robert who had eaten the mushrooms off James’ plate when their mother wasn’t looking, who had supported his interest in the Navy even when their father hadn’t, who had taught him to pick locks and swear and hit a man properly and all the things an elder brother is supposed to teach the younger. True, he hadn’t seen Robert for some years, but there was no hostile reason for it—James’ duties simply didn’t allow for trips to the Virginia colony. The last time James had seen his brother had been seven years ago, when Robert, his wife, Evangeline, and little Hannah had come to spend the Christmas season in Port Royal.

Had Robert really been so ill? The last letter James had received from him had been a mere two months ago, containing both congratulations on his promotion and a few choice words concerning Elizabeth that he had been shocked to read. There had been no mention of sickness, none at all, but that was Robert’s way: to carry on as if nothing at all was amiss. Their father had called it a family trait.

James stared down at the piece of correspondence with rising antagonism. Why now? Why did his brother have to up and die _now_ , when his life was already falling apart at the seams? He was indulging in irrationality, he realized, but this…this was so unexpected, so unneeded that James didn’t much care. He was angry and, by God, he had a right to be! He made to shred the offending parchment into a thousand pieces, but he stopped as one word, one, fateful word, caught his eye:

Children.

 


	5. An Understandable Assumption

“…Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind—”

“Ha! I wish that were so!”

Rebecca looked up over the top of her book to see Marianne drive her needle through her sampler with violent vehemence.

“You wish what were so?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at her sister’s distressed actions.

“That love looked with the mind,” Marianne sniped, jerking on her knotted thread. “That love looked at all!”

“Is Mother getting after you again?” Rebecca asked, laying her blue ribbon in her book to mark the place and closing it.

“Oooh, yes!” the younger woman trilled, tugging harder on her thread. “This morning it was ‘Why don’t you call on young Mr. Cantrell today?’ and yesterday it was ‘What about that lovely gentleman from Kingston?’. Oh, damn this thread!”

Rebecca sighed, not bothering to rebuke Marianne for her language; after all, there was no one to hear. The garden was their sanctuary, their fortress against social niceties. Rebecca extended her hands and Marianne thrust the sampler into them with a glare for the offending project and continued her tirade.

“I know Mother and Father want me married… _I_ want me married! But, Becca, you should see these fops and rakes I’m presented to! There I stand, trussed up like a Christmas goose for them to appraise at their leisure! It’s positively humiliating. Some are old enough to have fathered me, half of them wear more cosmetic than I do, and the rest leer over their tumblers of rum and feast their eyes on my bosom!”

At the last, Rebecca let out a burst of laughter, and Marianne scowled.

“Becca, it is not funny!”

“Yes, it is!” Rebecca giggled. “’Feast their eyes’ indeed!” Her smile faded. “Still, Marianne, you are fortunate. Not every girl has so much choice in the matter as you.”

“I know,” Marianne sighed. “And I’m grateful to Father for that. I am. It’s just…I want _love_ , Becca. Like Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Turner.” She sighed again and flopped to the ground most ungracefully. “I want some dashing, young man to come and sweep me off to adventure!”

With a quick snap of her wrist, Rebecca tugged the troublesome thread through the linen. “Yes, because being cold, wet, and hungry is so dreadfully romantic.”

“Oh, Becca, it wouldn’t be like that!”

“It wouldn’t?” Rebecca retorted. “According to Miss Elizabeth, there is very little romance about it.”

Marianne jolted up, eyes wide. “What do you mean ‘according to Miss Elizabeth’?” she queried.

“Don’t stitch so quickly,” Rebecca said, handing the sampler back to her sister and reopening her book. She adjusted her spectacles and settled back against the tree. “I had tea with her Wednesday last,” she added, beginning to read.

“Why do you never tell me these things?”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Rebecca answered.

“I thought you didn’t like her!” Marianne exclaimed

“I said nothing of the sort,” Rebecca said, and returned steadfastly to her Shakespeare.

It was true, Rebecca hadn’t expected to find a companion in Elizabeth Swann, but much to her surprise, their dispositions were fairly similar. Though in her opinion, Elizabeth was still fairly naïve, the soon-to-be Mrs. Turner confessed herself that the escapade with the pirates had settled her girlish daydreams quite a bit. Rebecca shook her head and began to read again.

“…Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste; And therefore is love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguil'd. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, so the boy love is perjur'd everywhere; for ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne, he hail'd down oaths that he was only—”

“Marianne!”

Both sisters jumped at the sudden sound, and Marianne began furiously brushing bits of leaf and grass from her hair. Rebecca fumbled for her parasol and whipped it open, placing it over her shoulder as if it had been there for hours. Marianne had just settled her own parasol on her shoulder when their mother bustled into the garden.

Their mother, Julia Clarke, was a wiry, vivacious woman, who, although no longer young, still carried herself with the saucy dignity of a debutante. She ran a tight household, and Rebecca had personally seen many shopkeepers and weathered officers make hasty retreats from her sharp tirades.

Now, their famously waspish mother was grinning as she strode across the lawn. Rebecca glanced at Marianne, who gave a slight shrug; this excitement was unusual and both were at a loss as to its cause.

“Marianne, come inside at once!” their mother said, excitement apparent in her every word. “We have a visitor! Your father is entertaining him now, but hurry! You must look your best!”

“Oh, Mama,” Marianne sighed. “I’m so tired of being paraded in front of Port Royal dandies and rakes. May I remain with Becca? I promise I will call on Mr. Cantrell. Please, Mama?”

“Mr. Cantrell is hardly important!” their mother rushed on with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Rebecca found herself intrigued. Mr. Jacob Cantrell was one of the wealthier young men in Port Royal, and while Marianne had found his nature, though not his physicality, altogether repulsive he was currently the forerunner in her list of suitors.

“Hardly important, Mama?” she asked. “Only this morning you were urging Marianne to pay a visit to him.”

“Yes, what richer, more lecherous fool has presented himself to court me, Mother?” Marianne sniped.

“Marianne! You should not judge before you know,” their mother scolded. “You shall be on your best, and I mean your _best_ , behaviour, Marianne. The Commodore is an important man, and I’ll not have you offending him with your unladylike ideas.”

“The Commodore?” Marianne giggled and Rebecca cringed. “But he isn’t here to see _me_!”

Their mother glared and Rebecca tried to catch Marianne’s eye to and thus beg her sister to be quiet, but Marianne was purposefully avoiding her gaze.

“What do you mean he isn’t here to see you?” their mother asked. “And why is that so amusing?”

“Didn’t Becca tell you?” Marianne continued. “She made his acquaintance at Miss Swann’s engagement ball. He must have come to visit with her.”

“Rebecca, is this true?”

Rebecca didn’t bother to hide her groan as she leaned her head back against the tree; if only Marianne had kept quiet!

“Yes, Mother,” she said. “But I know of no reason why he would call on me. It was a chance meeting, nothing more.”

“Well, then! Perhaps you can convince your sister of his upstanding character. Whomever he’s come to see, I want both of you inside. Now!”

“What in God’s name possessed you to do that?” Rebecca hissed to Marianne as they followed their mother towards the house.

“What have I done?” Marianne cried, exasperated. “I merely informed Mother that you had met the man.”

“You could have done without making it sound so important!” Rebecca snipped back, clutching her book to her chest as if that would calm the stubborn knot of nervous hope in her stomach. She would _not_ admit she was nervous. She would not; but the barest of minute possibilities that Commodore Norrington had come to see her and not Marianne at once terrified and thrilled her.

“But, Becca, it is important! Or at least the town gossips seem to think so.”

Rebecca gaped at he sister, eyes wide. “What?”

“Becca, the Commodore is the most desired bachelor in Port Royal,” Marianne whispered, clutching Rebecca’s arm and whispering conspiratorially. “He studiously avoided the attentions of every young female at that ball. He refused outright to dance with any of them, for all their begging and simpering. And _you_ share private words with him? It has sparked quite the talk amongst my friends.”

“Oh, Lord, Marianne! This is terribly embarrassing,” Rebecca said as they stepped through the garden door into the welcome shade of the house. She sighed, closing her parasol. “But I’m being foolish. He’s here to either speak to Father or to court you, as you well know.”

Rebecca set aside her parasol and for a moment considered laying her book down beside it. Instead, thinking it would do well to have something to occupy herself, she kept it in her hands as she followed Marianne into the parlour.

“Ah, there you are! Come in, my dears,” her father said, beckoning them further into the room. “Commodore, may I present my daughters, Marianne and Rebecca.”

Rebecca dipped into a swift curtsy, still clutching her book against her bodice with one hand, mentally berating herself for her unwarranted anxiety. Whatever was there to be nervous about? True, the Commodore looked far more imposing standing sternly in her parlour with his hands clasped behind his back and his mouth pressed in a strict line than he had, though his uniform was far simpler than that which he had worn at the ball. With the way he held himself now, the brash nonchalance he had displayed at their first meeting seemed impossible.

Despite her nerves, Rebecca couldn’t quite suppress a smirk at Marianne’s all-too-clearly sullen “Good day, sir”. Her mouth twitched and she ducked her head slightly in an attempt to hide it.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Marianne,” Norrington replied, and his voice held no hint of the bitterness that had been so pronounced before. “And it is good to see you again, Miss Rebecca. I hope you have been well?”

Rebecca glanced up and it calmed her somewhat to see that his eyes—green, she noticed now—had warmed as he spoke to her.

“I have, thank you,” she said.

“I am glad,” Norrington said and continued abruptly. “Mr. Clarke, if you do not object, I would like a moment to speak to Miss Rebecca. In private, please.”

Rebecca nearly dropped her book. Her gaze darted from the bewildered faces of her parents to Marianne’s gleefully smug expression, and she was certain she herself resembled a landed fish. He had come to speak with _her_? Her nervousness began to fade, replaced by curiosity. Whatever could he want with her?

“Yes. Yes, of course, Commodore,” her father said, and ushered her mother and Marianne out of the room.

Rebecca clearly heard Marianne’s exclamation of “I told you so!” as the parlour doors swung shut.


	6. A Modest Proposal

“Please excuse my sister, Commodore,” Rebecca said in a rush, schooling her voice out of a nervous tremor. “She has such fanciful notions. Please, do sit down.”

“Thank you, Miss Clarke,” Norrington replied. Even seated in the wing-backed chair, his bearing was ramrod straight, and once again, Rebecca was struck by the difference between the man she had met on the veranda and the stiff, austere officer occupying her father’s favorite chair.

“Will you take tea, Commodore?” she asked, setting her book on the edge of the tea table and leaning forward to properly set the china. As she glanced at him in anticipation of his answer, she saw his sharp green eyes flit quickly over the cover of her book, and a warm, almost secret smile twitched at his stern mouth.

 “Yes, please,” he said, and paused briefly before he continued, almost as if he was weighing his next words. “You prefer the comedies, I see.”

Rebecca smiled as she poured. “I enjoy them, yes. Sugar?”

Again, Norrington paused, and this time Rebecca thought she saw the smallest hint of reticence. “Just one, please. If you do not object to my asking, what is it about the comedies that is so enthralling to you?”

“I don’t object at all, Commodore,” Rebecca answered, handing him his tea. “Every now and then, one needs some light diversion that does not overtax the mind. I assure you, when I am in a scholarly disposition, my favor is given entirely to the Prince of Denmark, or your Scottish Thane.”

“Gloomy reading for a young lady,” Norrington remarked, a bit of that brash familiarity sneaking back into his manner.

“Not at all,” Rebecca replied with a small smile. “If I wish for gloom, I read the daily gazette.”

Norrington laughed. The sound was sudden and rolling, like mirthful thunder, and Rebecca found herself tempted to laugh with him. She settled for a stolen smile behind her teacup. As suddenly as it came, the Commodore’s laughter ended and he was back to his collected self.

“Regrettably, Miss Clarke, I did not call on you to discuss the finer points of literature,” he said, his manner suddenly formal once more. “I am here to make a proposition that I most sincerely hope you will accept.”

Rebecca took a hasty sip of tea, all her banished nerves returning in a dizzying rush, and she prayed that Marianne was not closeted on the other side of the parlor door; hearing this would surely send her into fits of giddiness.

“And what is this proposition, Commodore?” she asked, her voice steady despite the incessant fluttering in her chest.

Norrington stared into his tea for a moment, and his somber bearing shifted, allowing a distinct sadness to show for the space of a breath. “I was recently informed of the untimely passing of my older brother,” he said.

“You have my condolences, Commodore.”

“They are much appreciated,” he replied, taking a somewhat uneasy breath before he continued. “Furthermore, it was brought to my attention that I have been appointed guardian to his young children, a girl of thirteen and a boy of six.” He paused again, and there was something apologetic in his expression. “I regret that I am…largely unaware of the intricacies of raising children, and I am at an especial loss as to what is proper for a young girl of Hannah’s age. As I am sure you can surmise, Miss Clarke, when I received this news, my immediate thought was to secure more suitable care for them, and, if it is not too forward to say, I thought first of you.”

“I am flattered,” Rebecca said with a nod.

“I wish to offer you a position as governess, Miss Clarke,” Norrington said in a sudden rush. “I am able to provide adequate accommodations and a stipend for your services.”

Rebecca set her teacup down slowly and made a slight adjustment to her spectacles, folding her hands in her lap, fighting the excitement bubbling inside her with all the formal reserve she possessed.

“Forgive me, Commodore,” Rebecca said. “But I must inquire as to the amount of the stipend.”

“I can offer £40 a year and any travel expenses you may need, as well as meals with the children and myself, when I am home.” Norrington answered. “You would be required only to see to the children and to their studies, nothing more. If the offer is not satisfactory—”

Rebecca smiled. “I find the offer perfectly satisfactory, Commodore, and I would be delighted to accept.”

For a moment, Norrington looked as though he was going to smile as well. Rebecca saw something unrestrained and bright leap in his eyes, but he quelled it.

“Excellent,” he said, all brisk efficiency. “The children will be arriving within a fortnight. I will see to the transfer of your affects.”

“I keep very little in the way of personal affects, excepting, perhaps, my books,” Rebecca said with a pleased glance at the volume on the table. “I’m a simple woman, Commodore. I assure you, I will be little trouble to keep.”

Norrington gave his tea another ponderous glance. “That is…refreshing,” he said, then stood suddenly, cup and saucer still in hand. “I regret I must take my leave, Miss Clarke. I had but a few moments to spare. Duties at the Fort—”

“I quite understand, Commodore,” Rebecca assured him, gently taking the china from his hands with a slight curtsy and replacing it on the tea tray. “I will see you to the door.”

Rebecca heard the very distinct rustle of cotton petticoats as she opened the parlor doors. Marianne was sitting primly on the edge of a rather conspicuous chair, and doing her best to appear innocuous and absorbed in her needle work. Rebecca could see that hers sister was fairly bursting with excitement and curiosity, and so she marched straight past her without so much as a glance to hint at what had occurred behind the parlor doors. Norrington, however, seemed to be slightly off put by Marianne’s behavior, but, to his credit, he made no comment.

“I shall come to collect you next Wednesday,” he said once they’d reached the door. “I thought you might like a few days to become acclimated to the house.”

“That is most kind, Commodore,” Rebecca responded. “Wednesday will be perfect.”

“Until then, Miss Clarke.”

He donned his hat with a curt bow, and strode out the door. Rebecca watched him for only a moment, then turned to Marianne, beaming.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This little fluff love story is a piece I work on when I get stressed out/stuck on other projects and as an experiment to play with my writing style. The chapters are short and infrequent, but hopefully still enjoyable.


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